Chosen Bearer of the Dark Sign
by Last Harlequin
Summary: Thou who art undead, art chosen, and maketh thy pilgrimage to the land of ancient lords. The tale of Marcus on his journey. A novelization of Dark Souls. Rating for explicit violence and mentions of suicide. A journey through a lonely world populated by the hopeless, the damned, and the mad.
1. Prison Break

A/N: something I've been working through for a long time, decided it was time to post what I've done. Want to be more productive so thought I'd get into the reeds with a game i really enjoy. Update schedule is nonexistent. enjoy my imagining of what it is to be in Lordran

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Thou who art Undead art Chosen, and should make Pilgrimage from the Undead asylum to the land of ancient Lords. Many would call it providence, some small number whisper that it is birthright. All agree that undeath is a mark upon you, an obvious one that leaves the body undying and the soul eternally marked. The Undead forfeit their lands, their family, and their homes. Cast out without moors to the winds, most hollow turning to little more than beasts. Beasts with sword, axe, and all the skill of a lifetime with sword in hand. A lack of empathy is not a lack of skill. The hollow aim to steal humanity, to undo the horror that has befallen them. Such is the fate of nations of men in the absence of gods. Balder, Carim, Astora, all now fight their infestation with faith and vigor guided by the wisdom of the Way of White and the Allfather's guidance. In the ancient days there was war, but war has faded as the flames faded to ember.

Markus, once Vandur, now nothing. The loss of the history and support of the family is a crippling blow. He could feel it acutely, sitting in a cell, the padding of his armor insulating against the cold of the stone. It had another effect, hiding his arms and legs from himself. He had walked by many nearly nude hollows, determined not to see in himself similarity with their vacant expressions and the burning fury in his eyes. He shivered in a way that had nothing to do with cold, he could barely feel anything through the leather that was his flesh anyway. a dull sensation of throbbing where his heartbeat should be. He let out an audible sigh and looked at the steel cage of the iron door that sealed his cell, one of many in the sprawling complex, the distant footfalls of a great demon, time passed so slowly, nothing to mark the changing of time, no clocks, nothing. The sun above, Gwyn's inspiration, the distant warmth was the only heat he had, looking up to the hole in the ceiling the only contact to the outside, the sky overcast, the heavy grey clouds mirroring the haze within.

Time passed slowly so slowly, it was easy to give up. He held onto prophecy, the only thing he had. Above a great clashing, smashing steps, the clank of armor, Marcus put his hands to his head. Another hollow must have tried to leave, the Jailor would let none escape, it was its sole purpose, compelled by unknown geas holding it here. It would quiet soon, and indeed it did. He settled again slumping into the wall. Unable to sleep, his mind wandered.

a moment later, or perhaps a thousand years, The sound was immense, a corpse fell into Marcus' cell and his head automatically traced its path back up and looked face to visored face with someone, the tabard of blue, the shape of his helm, the hilt of the sword. He was someone, Astoran, Marcus looked up and felt hope. As swiftly as he appeared the person looked over his shoulder and vanished. For the first time in perhaps years stood, his body protesting like old leather but Marcus made himself stand and move to the body, prying the broken sword from its fingers, though only a few inches of rusty steel past the hilt better than nothing. The real prize however was a heavy key, gripping the stub of a sword in a death grip he raised the key up and just before he tried it he paused, a prayer coming to his cracked lips, his collapsed lungs drew only the shallowest of breaths but it was enough for Prayer. He fell back to one knee pulling away from the lock, bringing the hilt up to his head and holding it a few moments until the words were whispered by a tongue that felt dead and lips near frozen. Then he stood and slid the key home and tuned it forcefully. The click of the lock was like a shot of fire into his veins and he reached up, leaving the key in the lock to grip the bars and yank at them with fervor of a drowning man. The door moved by inches fighting every inch but he found his strength nigh limitless, his muscles burned but he never felt more tired, the haze receded inch by inch.

Marcus stepped into the torchlight darkness of the depths of the Asylum, putting one foot in front of the other, as he moved others, Hollow and possessed of eyes burning with rage and jealousy reached for him groaning and screaming as he ignored them, heading out. Freedom, even the most distant chance was great enough to motivate his withered limbs. He moved slowly, the weight of his unornamented platemail imparting a clamor with every step. a hollow stepped up into his way more than once, but even the most useless of weapons is a weapon still and he easily dispatched the withered wretches that attacked him with a sharp blow of the pommel to the wretch's head and then thrust the sharp broken end into his chest. The blow was accompanied by a drizzle of thin, ruddy, clumpy liquid that Marcus took a moment to recognize as blood. He was frozen a moment as the cool fluid ran over his fingers. Struck by a quiet terror that the same effluence ran through his dessicated veins. Then the moment was passed, the creature huffed out a final raspy breath as the light was driven from its eyes and its last exhalation carried a thin white mist that shot across the intervening space as he sharply inhaled in surprise. He felt some tiny vestige of warmth follow the poor creature's soul into him. after a moment's panic he moved on, feeling somehow more whole for the theft of another's soul. The creeping feeling of urgency ran through him as a distant roar and a clash of stone, a battle. The desire to follow in the wake of the Knight was Immense, the first person he'd seen with a volition of his own since he'd been locked away so long ago. He fought his way slowly gathering a few more small warm breaths of the fallen as he went, though, not by his choice.

Coming out of the depths of the Asylum was like seeing the fire for the first time. even the cold light of the overcast sun was blinding here. he raised a hand warding the light but at the same time drawn like a moth. He pressed a few steps forward into the court, his feet landing in a thin layer of snow, no surprise this far north. He smelled something though, cloying, heavy. The scent of burned flesh and charred bone. a broken fire stake laying amongst a dead flame. He looked at his eventual fate, to be burned to nothing, freed from this mortality and cleansed of his tainted past. The darkness of men was well known. He still had a distance to everything, the lack of the feeling of chill, the soft labored thud of his heart beating without warmth. His lungs nearly collapsed taking only the most shallow of breaths more from reflex than from necessity.

He passed by the outer court and stepped up to the mighty doors to the main hall, his hands pressing as he leaned his entire body into budging the heavy, rusted portal. Pressing into the main corridor he noticed the buckled land and the veil of snow settled into the cracks between the paving stones, the massive pots that once transported grain and clean water once upon a time stood waiting in the eerily empty space looking toward the outer door of the Asylum, escape only strides away. He started toward the great door as something above him crashed and came flying toward him, shouting.

"Make Way!" He only had a moment to realize the knight was soaring at him, his young voice echoing in the open space. Marcus nimbly hopped backward as the Knight came down to land on his legs and transition into a forward roll to bleed his momentum.

"It's right behind me!" He shouted as a massive shape dropped from the roof above. the impact shook the very ground as it stared, chinless, bulbous and with a veritable crown of hoary antlers upon its head. Most possessing though, beyond the fragile looking batlike wings, the cancerously massive thighs and read was the hammer it bore. Suddenly the broken hilt in Marcus' hand felt as though it were as good as nothing truly. The knight's hand clapped to his shoulder breaking him from his stupor.

"There! The light! Run, Friend, Run!" Gesturing with his straight sword, Marcus needed no further encouragement as the creature recovered from its fall and raised the hammer wrought of arch tree and wielded by a Demon's unholy strength was motivation enough. the Knight lagged only a step behind as they cleared the torch-marked door, a mere moment before the torches were snuffed by a ringing impact upon the wall as they made the tiny corridor. Gasping the Knight looked up, his sword and shield marked truly of Astora. Marcus's stamina returned swiftly, the Knight similarly swift to recover. The knight sheathed his blade, a finely wrought blessed weapon. Seldom had marcus seen its like, and only in the hands of the powerful. He found himself bowing and took a slow breath filling fluid-rattled lungs instinctively as he opened his leathery mouth to speak.

"my lord, thank you." he said, his voice a dry, painful whisper. The Knight heard however and laughed quietly. raising his visor to show a young man flesh pale and ruddy from the cold, his dirty blond hair cut short beneath his helm and plastered to his forehead. he smiled easily.

"I am a lord no longer! I am Undead, as are you, judging by your armor you know what it is to be branded in my homeland." Marcus felt the fool and managed a soft huff, raised his own hand to his visor to find it already raised, he turned his face away in shame, knowing what he must look like. A moment of silence passed between them before the kNight spoke.

"I am called Oscar, what should I call you?" trying to make conversation as they walked into what seemed to be a small bathing chamber, likely intended for the once-attendants of this place long abandoned to the predation of the Demon passed. They pressed forward into the Asylum again as Marcus spoke in his rasp.

"Marcus." He said falling in behind Oscar who drew his weapon again hefting his shield.

"Well, Marcus, stay close, we have a Prophecy to fulfill, do we not!?" he said excitably. Marcus could merely nod a small smile upon his face as he raised a hand and dropped his visor into place gripping the hilt with both hands, determined to be useful even if he was barely armed. They came to a rising corridor and Marcus's head nearly received a new hole as an arrow whistled by to strike the ground, he looked up the incline to spy a small group of hollows, grim of face and bearing weapons one of them holding a dilapidated bow. Oscar, true to himself advanced into the bowfire, shield raised.

"We'll take the together, two knights against these wretched Hollows!? Child's play!" He advanced holding his shield to protect his head and chest, letting the arrows harmlessly strike the hardened crest of his enchanted shield. The advance took them over bodies, fallen ones pierced with arrow or cut to ribbons by rusted blades. Something caught Marcus' eye though, a heater shield, not unlike the one he had trained with for years before ascending to knighthood. he grabbed the wet shield and lifted it, a tower upon the front was heraldry he didn't recognize but it let him step up and stand shoulder with Oscar who glanced over. They shared a look, faces hidden behind visors and together they charged in a stampede of armored feet. The Hollows stood firm, but showed no coordination in their response attacking in a mass with hungry howls. Amongst the broken, rusted and worthlessly shoddy blades and cudgels formed of a mere length of wood the two Astorans showed why theirs was a nation known for its warcraft. They stood shoulder to shoulder, Marcus forced to keep to his defense by the broken weapon in his hand, the shield was sturdy, but the length and fury of his enemies forced him to defend and allow Oscar to fight with his far finer weapon.

Together however the crowd thinned, a half dozen hollows felled in a handful of seconds that felt like minutes, the first real fight he'd encountered since finding his drive again. Marcus looked into the bodies as their warmth gathered splitting between the puffing youth and his dessicated ally, and spied something laying in amongst them. A broadsword, in good repair, he remembered it in the hands of one of the Hollows, the first that Oscar had felled. Marcus tossed aside his handle, and grasped a real weapon again raising it and inspecting it, with only a shadow of rust the edge still gleamed in more places than not. Its weight was like an anchor to his soul. Oscar nodded in his peripheral vision and Marcus turned to face him.

"Good, two blades make light work." a sentiment that Marcus could only nod to. Marcus cast about for a sheath, but finding none looked forward again and trudged higher, Oscar quick stepped to keep up.

They fought into the Asylum, level by level until above them was only broken ceiling and sky. They moved like a machine exploring the asylum, There seemed only one balcony left, one facing outward, to freedom. Neither spoke of it, but both knew why they went this way. To see freedom even if they did not yet possess it. as they started up a set of doubled stairs, one up and the other down above them a grinding sounded and two sets of eyes looked up as a massive iron ball rolled into view and then came down the stairs, shattering a few as it rolled, inexorably toward them. Marcus did the only thing he could think of, cocked his shoulder and shoved as hard as he could throwing oscar off the side as the massive sphere struck him in the body as he tried to dance back rolling over him, denting his helm and breastplate, the impact sending screaming pain through his entire body. He fought to his feet as he heard the ball crush a wall behind him, a hollow coming to the top of the stairs face stitched with rage and coming at him. For all its cleverness it was no more disciplined than its comrades and there was a certain vindictive pleasure that came with the warmth of its soul coming into him. He turned and started back down the stairs as Oscar found his feet looking rattled. coming up the stairs in a rush. They met with oscar looking up at him panting

"That... was mighty brave of you, Marcus." Oscar said looking mildly ashamed.

"You are injured." it was not a question, He reached to the back of his belt and opened a small pouch pulling out a green crystalline flask, within golden fire burned, sloshing about liquidly. "Estus Flask, an undead favorite. Here, there should be enough for one drought left. Take it." Marcus took the flask and lifted his visor bringing the pleasantly hot flask to his mouth and tilting it up as the fluid entered his mouth it flared, and he felt power flush through his body, all the ache and dullness of pain vanished in an instant, leaving only blessed relief and a few minor aches that seemed comedically trivial. He offered the now empty flask back to Oscar who held up a hand.

"It's not more good to me than to you now, keep it. Should to find a strong flame, you might coax some of it into the neck and refill it. Tis not difficult. I will find another, they are not Uncommon these days. Firekeeper's Flames are the best, if you find a firekeeper, you'll know their flame by the kindness of their fire." Oscar said distantly, Marcus nodded but didn't interrupt as Oscar seemed to have more to say.

"I have only once rested at such a place, you know how we do not wither from lack of food or drink as a mortal?" Marcus nodded as Oscar continued.

"The warmth of that flame was like the most bounteous feast, I have never in my life felt so filled as staring into those flames, suddenly I see what those Boggymen see in their base castings of the false-flame." He said dreamily as Marcus shuffled uncomfortably at the mention of perversion of the soul arts of Vinheim.

They came out of their relative reveries as they ascended as they heard stomping about merely through the wall, Marcus nudged oscar.

"The demon." he said softly and Oscar nodded,

"we're just beside the main hall." he added softly as they came up the stairs and onto the terrace, apparently they were not the only ones who wished for freedom, meeting a truly astounding horde of Hollows clustered at the broken ramparts looking out toward the road to escape. The battle was furious, blows rained upon armor and shield, ragged edges drawn through flesh leaving a murky, sanguinated slush about the ankles and soulless hollows laying in the quiet. The two knights stood side by side looking at the carnage they'd wrought with wordless acknowledgement and a prayer for these many lost and battered souls.

Oscar flinched slightly and looked at Marcus.

"Out of estus, there will be no succor for us unless we can find a Keeper's fire." Marcus's mind wandered a moment in response to that.

"I tire of killing them." Oscar said quietly, Marcus kept his disagreement to himself. He had always been taught that this was the curse Mankind brought, the darkness in their hearts made manifest. The Dark Sign that smoldered on the nape of his neck even now reminding him of the internal darkness they all fought. No, he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything but fury looking at these souls that he had so nearly fallen among. Without the drive to go on, without purpose given to him by the Knight he stood beside he could be like them, purposeless, hollowed and dark. Looking at them brought him only anger, at their weakness, and his own. He felt he could grant them this small mercy at least, to be destroyed. The gift of Gwyn's mercy. The feeling of faith drew his hand to his pocket, and he pulled a small bundle wrapped in canvas cloth, the bone of a saint, one of the gods. Talismans were rare, perishingly so, blessed and filled with conduits to the divine power beyond. He called to mind the words, the First Flame burned in his mind's eye as he sunk to one knee, gripping the talisman firmly and Trusting in the words of power he remembered clearly as though he had tucked away the scroll only moments ago. The words echoed through his mind, the words rising to his lips in a soundless whisper, he felt the power gather and release, the healing sunlight coming from within as the words were spoken, they vanished, the Stanza vanishing from his mind with the uncoiling divine power that left him feeling as though he had taken another sip from the Sunlit flask that rested empty in his pouch.

Oscar stood by his body language betraying shock, he mastered it quickly as Marcus rose to his feet taking a deeper breath and looking to the hidden sun, tucking away the talisman protectively.

"...You… are a Cleric?" Oscar said, sounding like he had a sliver of trepidation in him. Marcus shook his head.

"No, I… merely feel my faith strongly." It was true, after all. His Faith in the gods had seen him through much, though his brand had shaken it. He was no cleric, merely an especially faithful agent of the gods.

"Right, I apologize for my shock." He said, strangely more respectful until Marcus remembered his blasphemous comments earlier.

"Do not worry, we all say things thoughtlessly." He said raising a hand to Oscar, who seemed to relax.

"Right. let us be on then…" he said stepping up to the balcony as Marcus caught sight of something, turning to the shattered balcony overlooking the main hall behind them and the Demon who seemed to be casting about for something.

"We'll have to defeat that demon to escape you know, the key hangs around its neck. I was so close to grabbing it! If only I'd been… Wait!" He said turning to look at Marcus who was a mere step from taking a flying leap, and leap he did. He soared out, sword raised high as the Asylum's guardian Demon turned and looked up at the raspy, hollow-like roar of fury coming from Marcus' throat as he slammed the sword deep into the Demon's shoulder the Demon staggering with the blow a roar of pain and fury rising as hot blood, cherry red mixed with swirling black that seemed to bar ghostly flames, poured from the wound, where Marcus' sword arm was thrust into the flesh halfway to the elbow, then ripped it free as Oscar stood up at the top looking down with shock as the Demon looked up and swung at Oscar with a two handed strike, swatting him with a ton of Archtree's worth of force, shattering the balcony and throwing Oscar to the ground in a slump. Marcus looked up at the injured demon their eyes met, sunken fury against naked flames of hate. Marcus shifted his shield to his back and took his broadsword in both hands, the shield would do nothing to a foe who could shatter stone with a single stroke. The demon reared back and brought its hammer about to swat the knight like a fly. Marcus threw himself into a forward roll that anyone less practiced wearing armor would have never even attempted. He slipped right past the stroke and rose bringing his blade up in a flurry of two handed slices, abandoning technique for ferocity, the dance was on.

Stroke and counterstroke, the rust dusted longsword dripped with swirly ichor, the hammer strokes leaving him burning with the sting of glancing blows, the demon was slowing, its body slumping slowly, bleeding from dozens of cuts that would be mortal on a creature more human sized but seemingly merely fleshwounds to the titanic monster, but the hole in its shoulder still gushed, the snow was stained with its life. Marcus felt his determination firm, the throbbing in his back and shoulder, his hip and the faint ringing in his ears couldn't be allowed to slow him, or he would surely know death again. No, this was the end, they both knew it. this final exchange would be the last. Neither had the strength to keep this up. Marcus tightened his grip and took a deep breath as the demon shifted the grip of its strangely disproportionately small hands. The funnel like shape of its body striking him as almost funny as the moment approached. a strange humor of fatalism. The Demon raised its hammer and feinted a slam shifting it to a sweep that Marcus' dive could never hope to fully avoid, he rolled up took a knee and brought his blade up with a roar not unlike the demon's his blade struck the hammer and twisted his body putting every ounce of his strength to the move the demon seemed shocked as the trajectory of its hammer was changed by only a few degrees leaving Marcus' arms screaming at him, his blade nicked, but there's two edges to this one as he lept forward shifting his grip and holding his blade overhand point down slammed it once, twice, thrice into the demon's stomach, as it huffed and started to raise its hammer only for the Ichor's flow to finally slow, the hammer falling from nerveless fingers as Marcus had to dance back. The heat washing off the Demon was immense as it dissolved with a cry. The angry flames within consuming it in an instant, ripping it to nothing as the chaotic flames reclaimed what was theirs all along. The wash of heat burning against him forcing a gasp from him as the monster's soul fled. The surge burned his veins like fire, several times the strength of every hollow he'd fought thus far, the bounty of strength seemed immense, but it did nothing to banish the pain in his body.

Pain that brought him to his knees, his sword dropped beside him. as he opened his pouch and withdrew his Talisman, he clutched it in both hands, closed his eyes and raised it to his helm, the words tumbling from his lips even as their tightly bound power unfolded in his mind, the first rush of heat, then the second burned away his aches and trauma. The second and third stanza of the five part prayer for succor forgotten as their power restored his battered body to wholeness. He slipped away his Talisman, Gwyn's name on his lips as he lifted his sword and wiped it with clean white snow, removing the Demon's Ichor as he walked slowly to where Oscar lay, barely moving in the rubble.

"You did it." he said softly, with a cough. Marcus dropped to one knee and started moving stones but Oscar raised a hand to forestall him.

"No my friend, Marcus. This is the end for me. I do not have your Faith, or your determination." he said sadly, laughing fatalistically.

"Seems there's only place for one Chosen Undead, eh?" He said and Marcus looked away.

"Do not look at me like that. Knowing you are on the path you are, fills me with relief, I cannot lie. Not now. I feared I would never escape this place, that the demon would hold me here forever. You… You killed it yourself! I…" he paused to cough, human red staining his visor, Marcus leaned forward, making quiet noise to silence him as he pulled off the Knight's helm. The young man smiled his lips red with his own blood.

"Thou who art Undead art Chosen. Maketh thee Pilgrimage to the land of Ancient Lords, and ring the Bell of Awakening. Then the Fate of the undead thou shalt know. Go, Chosen Undead. Please. For all of us." He said fighting to raise a hand. Marcus took his hand.

"I will." Marcus said as Oscar relaxed and looked into the distance, the fire fading from his eyes as he seemed to disintegrate, like a statue made of ash, he blew away.

Marcus rose to his feet, and walked back to the pile of grey ash that was the Demon as the stones collapsed into the space Oscar had occupied not long before. He rooted through the ash, pulling the massive key from the pile and walking to the main gates. The opened only with the greatest effort, taking many minutes of fighting to open the rusted hinges and force the way. He stepped out to the open air with a triumphant burning in his chest he couldn't deny and he moved with nearly indecent haste up the walk, trusting his undeath to keep him as indefatigable as he had been. The feeling of triumph burned away as he crested the hill and looked upon the broken cliffs that had once been the hillsides he had remembered, Isolated, truly trapped he looked down with a growing fury of destiny denied. Darkness eclipsed him as he closed his eyes. The distant call of a crow opened them and he looked to the distant mountains planning his decent even as a great mass rose up. Then, between one moment and the next he felt himself be taken hold of by a great crow, the greatest he had ever seen, with uncommon intelligence even greater than the uncanny wisdom of its smaller brethren. looking for a moment into that eye he allowed himself to be carried, a distant feeling of apprehension warring against the drop below him, weighing certain death against the intent of the Crow. He waited, watching the world whip by beneath him as the bird turned, toward Lordran.

Toward Destiny.

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Chapter 1, short but naturally ending, that's the likely format on all of them, they'll just end where it's natural to, so chapter length may vary wildly. Send me your thoughts and the answer to this question, Who was your favorite character with no spoken lines in Dark Souls?


	2. Firelink Shrine and the Twisted Berg

A/N: for likely the first and last time, a double feature. I wanted to see if the story would just up and die in my head but it didn't, so enjoy the fruits of my labors.

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The long journey to Lordran was not so far as the Crow flies. The great bird, a message from the goddess of sin herself, it could be none else. Marcus held onto the claws that gripped him as the crow soared on the wing and the mountains that formed the mass of Lordran above the mists came into view. The Crow circled down and brought him to rest beside a tame flame, burning bright in a circle of stone and cleared earth. It dropped him and winged higher into the strange ruins he found himself in. This place whispered as the canyon breeze cooled his side through his armor, the stones covered in tenacious green moss and the area badly overgrown with weeds, patches of wiry grass and small bushes warred with vines to control what little warmth there was to be had in this desolate place.

The quiet was oppressive. His ears rang with it until the gentle croak of the great crow broke it and Marcus found himself broken from his fugue. He'd stepped up to the flames not unlike a moth, drawn to the dancing ephemeral lights. It was unlike any fire he'd seen before. It shifted and stirred, rising up with soft uniform orange a fire without the riotous color or the fierce heat. No variation, no smoke to be found in it.

His eyes traveled down the stand at the center, looking at the soft white ash and the white splintered sticks jutting from the pile, burning. Where the bodies and bones of undead are lain to burn, a bone-fire. Humanity burns here the darkness within could be burned away in this place. Marcus sat at the fire, the warmth of it banished the chill of this place, the distant winds that caressed his face past his armored visor. He lifted a hand to raise the protective cover, exposing his leathery face to the flames. He felt a heat rise within him. Rather than on his face, it burned in his core, bone deep, and then deeper still. A resonance of the soul. He looked into the fire, the flames consuming his attention, his focus wandering to the burning fires within, memory and projection.

He saw himself in the fire, holding his rusted sword in his dented armor small, weak, fragile. But he could see the potential. The souls burning around him like an aura. It waited, unformed and fluid here in the flame. Flame of light, flame of life, all things were born in flame and in its warm embrace burned to nothing. Flame created disparity, and disparity brought change. Creation was a tale told to all, the names and particulars drilled into the nobility. To forget history was to lose everything. He knew who he was, he saw his shriveled form, like ash, without flame or life to it. He wished himself stronger, and felt his soul shiver. Staring into the fire his focus intensified. He looked at the withered wretch before him in the dancing bonfire and saw him as he wanted to be. A stronger man could have killed that demon before it slew Oscar. He fancied he could see the muscle of the dessicated creature grow tauter, a tougher man could have fought more vigorously with even his heavy armor and weapons, he felt he could see this stronger faster self in the flames. He knew within him this fantasy was a glimpse of truth, so was the way of Flame. Stronger, faster, tougher, and perhaps, more faithful than he was.

Looking at the vision of the him-that-was-not; his soul resonated, beating with the fire in his heart as he felt his soul recede. A moment of panic gripped him, shaking him from his vision as he stumbled falling and lept back to his feet. He looked down at himself, he didn't feel so different. he looked at his sword and gripped it more fiercely. His soul did feel lesser than it had been, swollen with stolen vigor. Now it felt small and weak, like it were truly his again. He chuckled, as though smallness were desirable.

The sound of mail shifting made him spin, his dented armor and ill-kept sword ever his companions against the horrors that had befallen Lordran. Tales were told of what happened here, none of it was good. The man who appeared however had a long sword sheathed at his hip, and a shield hanging from a belt over his shoulder. He cast a disdainful look at Marcus and let out a sigh. His voice bleeding disappointment and a tiny edge of anger.

"Another one, eh? Let me guess. Fate of the Undead, hm?" he asked, his frown as though he'd stepped in something foul as he continued his path to sit against the ruined wall of this place, Marcus noticed however that he did face the fire. He settled, his shaggy brown hair oily, his armor rusted in places, his boots were scuffed and badly worn. his gloves looked dry and cracked. He sat hunched leaning on his knees with his elbows as though a great weight rested on his shoulders. He looked up at Marcus who had relaxed some, lacking a sheath he let the sword rest in one hand as they regarded each other a moment before Marcus remembered he had been asked a question and nodded mutely.

"I'd figured. Blast whoever started that foolishness. Well. Let me let you in on a secret. There are actually two," he raised a hand with apparent difficulty and raised two fingers a smug, lethargic smile on his face. "Both placed behind a legion of foes and hollows practically braying for more meat. You'd have done better to just let yourself hollow in that Asylum." Marcus' mouth tightened, the crestfallen man seemed not to care.

"I was like you once, I know that face. You will succeed, Yes, of course, how could I be so simple as to not see that you will succeed where dozens, no, probably hundreds have failed. Surely thousands, judging by the population of hollows." he said, laughing to himself without an ounce of humor.

"By all means, ram your head into that wall, feel your life fade with a sword rammed through your guts only to find yourself staring again into the flames, weakened and hollowed out. Only to die again, break the chain and lose it all. Again and again. It's enough to hollow a fellow out…" He said looking wistfully at the sky. Marcus listened, quietly his face softening as he felt pity well within him. The man's appearance suddenly making a degree of sense to him. He heard the man mutter to himself, his voice low, Marcus suspected he was not meant to hear. "I wonder if a minute of flight is worth the impact again…. Maybe later." a shudder passed through Marcus, down to his bones and back. He took a breath, and realized how close he had been to being this man. The warrior started when Marcus croaked out his next word.

"Where?" The warrior looked to him and then blinked slowly.

"The… the bells?" He asked unsure, Marcus nodded once.

"One above." He said pointing up the cliff the shrine was built into.

"In the undead church in the shadow of the great city itself." He said tiredly. then his hand dropped back to his knee, with a finger pointing at his feet.

"The other, below, at the base of that wretched, mouldering, pus-pit Blighttown. Good luck to you. See you soon." The warrior said contemptuously, looking away from Marcus.

He saw this conversation, for what it is was over. He turned, regarding the cliff and unlimbered his shield and marched up the way, out of the shrine and toward his destiny.

The climb in armor should have felt harder than it did, he felt the difference after the first fifty or so steps. the cliffs were massive, though he finally spotted a way across, it took the form of an aqueduct. That was not his first choice in bridge but it would serve. However, He had to get to it first.

Approaching it, he saw them standing vigilant at ruined guard posts. He barely had time to round the corner before the Hollow was upon him. With a mighty leaping attack that left Marcus' footing unstable, he spared a glance over his shoulder to the abyss behind him and was shoved back. This was no hollowed wretch, it was a warrior with armor and blade that showed at least as little rust as his own, though it was quite broken. He kicked the Hollow back from him and got his shield up before him in time to blunt its assault as it came in again to try to force him back, he waited for it to swing then let his training take over, trying something risky. The timing needed to be perfect. It was a common art, though few attempted it with a larger shield like his. The hollow continued it's assault stepping into force marcus over the edge, taking the broken blade in both hands and swinging down with all its might. Marcus used the weight of his shield and a predictive swat to hit the hollow right on the wrist throwing its attack's momentum wide. Staggered and reeling from the unexpected reversal the burning eyed hollow wasn't given a moment to recover before Marcus stepped forward and rammed his sword to the hilt through the hollow's leather armor, into its guts and up under its ribs to the vitals in its chest. the Spark faded from its eyes as easily as the cool, clotted effluence dripped from its wound. It took a solid tug to free his sword as another came upon him, with more behind it. He raised his shield. This would be dangerous.

There is a fine line between dangerous and suicidal. The fight lasted minutes, an eternity for a single man against many. His wounds mounted, with no way to restore his strength between them, he was hard pressed and losing. He could kill a dozen and there would still be more. His end came when explosions rang around him suddenly, just as he had been making progress toward the aqueduct above, gouts of fire rising from the ground. Firebombs, designed to give advantage against a besieging force, which he supposed he was. They proved to be his undoing, as he danced with one of the hollows, blade ringing from its manic attacks and nimble dodges. He didn't even realize it had circled him until the wash of fire struck his back, the shattering clay pot knocked him to his knees then the burning began. For those who have never been set ablaze, the pain is indescribable though the progress is not. The burning fades to a cold numbness which is more terrifying than any other, the Hollow was not idle while Marcus panicked and tried to douse the blaze. He didn't see it until its gnarled hands impacted his chest and knocked him to the ground. he rolled trying to escape the burning fuel that had snuck under his armor and the hollow that crouched on his chest.

He failed. He knew he had failed as he tried desperately to ward the broken edge of the blade by the hollow sitting on his chest pinning him down with its frenzied strength. It's screaming mouth as it drove the blade down into his hands and through his gloves. when it finally hit him in the throat it was because he couldn't see for the blood in his eyes and the creeping cold in his hands, the heaviness of his limbs settled as the hollow thrust its cold iron pain into his head and face again and again shattering his eye, his throat, then finally his vision faded as it put all its weight one last time.

Darkness, Infinite and consuming, he tumbled through the warm nothingness, caressed by the infinite abyss of black falling toward nothing for ages upon ages. It was quiet, he was not at peace though, purpose still filled him. His second death ended much like his first.

He jolted awake, his body spasming and an animal noise jumping from his throat as he looked about; his hand white knuckled on his sword. He cast about for his shield which he had dropped then snapping his hands to his face, jerking off his helmet to feel the rough leather on his face and throat, even though it felt dessicated and hardened he knew he lived again. He reached back and pulled back on his helmet as he heard a dry laugh and paused only a moment.

"Welcome back." The crestfallen warrior said sadly. "those hollows too much for you?" He said snarkily. "Looking at you, you're practically hollow already, come, have a seat, we'll both be gone before you know it." he said with a chuckle that left Marcus' skin crawling. He started again toward the cliffs hearing the warrior sigh behind him.

Something caught his eye though, leaned against a well there was the corpse of a hollow, long dead. On its chest danced three small sprites, like tiny black tongues of slowly wavering flame. Too solid to be fire, but he recognized them as he reached down to scoop them up they happily inhabited his hand as they did the darkness of his body. They seemed to bore through his palm and into his hand. It was a fascinating feeling. Like something he didn't know was missing found its way back.

He considered the bonfire behind him. Long having heard of the mission of clerics, to seek kindling. The art of feeding bonefires humanity to increase their intensity. He thought then and reached back to his pouch feeling the small emerald flask that Oscar had given him. He headed to the bonfire for the second time pulling out his flask. The warrior chuckled amusedly, Marcus did his best to ignore him entirely. He brought out the flask and looked to the fire, not quite sure what he was doing holding the flask out to the flames. He could hear the even greater amusement of the warrior, who cleared his throat loudly. Marcus took a few moments to look back at the infuriating pessimist, in order to restrain his ire from merely disemboweling the cretin.

When he did look back the Warrior mimed unstopping something and turning it upside down. Marcus nodded thanks and undid the stopper of the flask and held it, lip down, over the flames,. He was prepared for great heat and for his hand to burn, but the flames were merely warm, like intense sunlight made physical. Hot enough to warm him to the bones and then some but not enough to burn him.

The tongues of firelight rose up and touched the flask making them twirl around it slowly. Eventually they lazily wandered into the flask, gathering slowly and filling the flask with a smokey liquid heat that glowed like bottled sunlight. Marcus smiled, this was what he'd forgotten. Something to help him along. He remembered the effects of Estus well enough, and now knowing where it came from he found it both comforting and troubling in equal measure. He was no philosopher, but these flames were fed by those who shared his curse. However the sunlight in their flame was close to his heart in many ways. Not the least of which was the healing it provided to his desiccated body.

He mused for a time as the flask filled, when it was as full as it seemed to want to be, diffuse and smokey though it was he stopped it and tucked it away, carefully. Rising to leave, the Crestfallen made a small noise that had Marcus checking his flask.

"Will you not return the fire to your flesh? I'd go mad staring into that hollowed face." He said and Marcus looked back at him. He'd heard undead could regain some semblance of humanity, though it was as much a mystery to him as the Estus flask had been. He turned to face him fully. The crestfallen warrior pointed to the fire.

"You've already seen the workings of it. you just needed a little Humanity for this change." That was quite the hint and Marcus walked back to the flames and sat down close to them, near enough nearly to reach out and feel their hot caress.

Gazing deep into the flames again he saw himself in them, like a mirror in some ways. Then he looked harder and tried to see himself as he had been. Brown of hair, hawkish of features. He saw it in his reflection. His flesh undiminished and felt the light reach out to him, and something within him recoil hiding deep within. He reached out to the flame then, ignoring the fear of the flame within him reaching his hand out into the flame as it danced along his palm and he invited it in.

In that moment the fire roared along his veins, he felt his armor grow tighter, his breathing deepen. The pain, by the gods, the pain was omnipresent! Throughout his body, like his heart were pumping molten lead, it burned through him leaving him gasping, his limbs quaking from the horror and trauma. When he reached up and lifted off his helmet to breath he felt sweat upon his face and wiped his cool gauntlet against his forehead, realizing how warm he felt in his armor. Warmth and cold returned to him, so intense was the feeling that he nearly yelped. He pulled off his gauntlet and looked at his bare hand in marvel, to see pink flesh upon himself again was a godly gift indeed. A laugh bubbled from him. The dry chuckle rising from the warrior gave him pause and brought a tightness back to his jaw. He turned to regard the warrior again.

"Well, well, feeling a mite more human then, are we?" He asked rhetorically, with that self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Yes, I feel much my old self." Marcus responded his baritone voice bringing a look of shock to the Warrior that vanished a moment later.

"Found our tongue have we? well, no matter. Your next death will see you hollowed again. Guard your humanity well if you aim to keep it." He said with a dismissive wave of one hand, looking back down a set of stairs Marcus had missed, following the warrior's gaze. He felt like a haze had lifted from him. Some connection to the world around him felt restored and he breathed deep of the cold air. Reaching down to his gauntlet, helm and arms he readied them again, sliding down the visor and turning back to the cliffs.

"Another go? Good luck. You'll need it." The Warrior said as he walked away. Marcus felt too good to bother with a vicious look, no matter how deserved.

He found himself back upon the trail treading heavily. His shield raised and ready, visor down. He was ready when he came around the corner for the attack, and met it with hard slash that sent the undead to the ground as he took a step forward to cut him down. It felt different, he felt more confident, more powerful. Even if it were merely a trick of the mind it worked for him and he fought on.

There were as many as he remembered, and twice already he had fallen back from his wounds to take a draught of Estus and restore his vitality. He fought on each time, pressing again into them diminishing them one by one, their broken swords and firebombs not nearly as effective against a foe who knew they were coming and was prepared. He felt a predatory smile on his face as he took a guarded taste of estus, Feeling the strength return to him again marveling at the gift of fire he'd been given. Offering silent thanks to his fallen comrade he threw himself back into the fray, climbing toward the aqueducts steadily, and successfully.

Standing at the entrance to the aqueducts looking back over the flame-pocked battleground he realized that he'd barely traveled a hundred yards. If this were the trial merely to enter the Undead Burg, what waited within?

Knowing the only way to find out was to press on he entered the duct and trudged against the gentle flow of water along the mossy bottom of the duct way. The sluice was evidently set quite low the water only ankle deep.

It was not so long before he found himself finally amongst the press of buildings that were constructed all the way up to buttress the aqueduct itself. The place was eerily silent. homes for hundreds, if not thousands, were here. Legend spoke of the bergs along the walls of the city of the Gods and their human inhabitants numbering thousands. He had no expectation that they had survived the plague of undeath any better than his nation.

It didn't take long for him to be proven right in his assumption. His progress was slow, fighting in every square with hollowed warriors in piecemeal armor and broken or rusted weapons. Mostly swords though with some finer weapons mixed in. The most dangerous were the axes and the firebombs which still saw use, the memory of his blazing death still tickled his mind at unpleasant moments.

He pressed on, deeper into the burg besting the hollows as they came with precise strikes. He used his armor and shield to great effect, rationing his Estus carefully, not knowing how far it would be to the next bonfire where he might refill it. Thinking of the bonfire reminded him of the chill in his heart, even as his soul swelled murder by murder to greater and greater strength, the warmth of the bonfire called him back.

He ignored the inclination to turn back, wary of losing his progress to more hollows coming in behind him. He fought his way up along the high road breaking through the rooftops to see the cliffside along. He was presented with a grand bridge, a startling vista. He was captured in the beauty of it for only a few moments before a sound of great motion drew his attention to the left into the vast open space of the divide. His mouth fell open as some vast red creature rose up and dropped onto the walkway, resting a moment and turning a great baleful eye back toward him. He stood stunned as it raised its great wings and brought them down with a gust that threatened to blow him over leap into the air, catch wind and fly up toward the bridge and over it with an echoing roar that shook him to the bones.

He had only a moment to appreciate the intrusion before a crossbow bolt impacted to the stone of the walkway just beside him. He raised his shield and looked for the origin, a hollow. Naturally, he started to head forward toward the crossbow wielder at the other side of the raised square. Pushing up the steps into the area it took Marcus a solid second to process the three other hollows that came rushing at him from cover, an ambush then. It was easy to fall into the pattern, luckily they were disorganized this time, coming one at a time. He had an easy opening and took it sweeping his broadsword and opening the hollow from navel to spine, leaving it to topple, breathing out its soul-breath even as the second was upon him, he leapt forward, borrowing a tactic from the hollows. The leap carried him forward even as a crossbow bolt impacted where he'd been. Mustn't forget the sniper as he fought, he doubted a crossbow bolt would be nearly as bad as a sheet of fire had been, but he was in no mood to find out. The jump attack struck the shocked hollow and knocked it to the ground plunging his sword through it's chest until it impacted the stone. He spared a moment to glance at the tip of his sword, seeing it unbent he breathed a sigh as the third hollow came at him with a fury, slinging its blade wildly, forcing Marcus to the defensive. He heard the action of a crossbow and backed up deflecting the bolt as he gave himself a little space from the hollowed warrior who swung wildly stepping forward awkwardly continuing its assault. He used its awkward transition to break in with a swift one two that laid the frail hollow low and he turned his attention to the glowing eyes sighting the crossbow at him from above.

This hollow was better equipped, he'd seen them before, a hollow here and there with better armor and higher quality weapons. He approached, climbing the stairs to its elevated position shield raised, wary of unseen enemies. finding himself alone with the hollow he quickly raised the shield one last time as it shot at him point blank before dropping the crossbow and drawing a longsword, with nary a speck of rust upon it. Hm, a hollow that knew how to care for a weapon, though its armor was in wild disrepair. Marcus huffed quietly to himself at the flash of amusement. time to laugh would come over this creature's still corpse.

He stepped up cautiously, measuring his steps as the Hollow wound up for a powerful thrust. Seeing it coming Marcus almost sighed in annoyance, stepping up right into the attack as the hollow swung forward letting Marcus catch the tip on his shield and neatly parry it out of the way, overbalancing the hollow as he stepped in and raised his hand in an overhead strike pounded the pommel of his sword into the ide of the hollow's helm, stunning it for a moment as he bashed it in the chest with his shield to keep it off-footed as he pulled back and showed the lost soul how a thrust was really done, sending the tip of the sword up into its desiccated stomach to the hilt. The impact jarred the hollow and it stumbled to its knees. Marcus frowned down at the leaking hollow as it looked down at his arm as its life faded, Marcus's sword stuck as he tried to jerk it back out, raising a boot and planting it on the hollow's chestplate he jerked back throwing the hollow onto its back as he freed his sword.

Looking down at the fallen warrior he noticed it had a sheath for the well-maintained longsword. He looked at the rusty, somewhat blunted broadsword and sighed. It took him a few moments to free the sword belt and get it secured around his waist. He picked up the fairly well balanced longsword and slipped it into his new sheath, it was snug. He allowed himself a smile as he heard a crash and smelt the burning fuel of a firebomb. He leapt backward holding up his shield in surprise, to see the rampart wreathed in flame between this roof and the small dwelling along the path, within he saw the ghost of movement and with a careful gaze he saw a group of three hollows all with balls in their hands waiting to rain fire down on him as he ran.

He considered this veritable deathtrap, either play it safe and get firebombed repeatedly, or rush headlong into an unknown house with who knew how many hollows lying in ambush. He turned back and descended to the square where he had seen the dragon to seek another path.

He found a split heading off to a smaller square packed with boxes with hollows standing guard over the sweet scent of rot, whatever they guarded was long past the point of usefulness. As he approached, drawing his new longsword he raised his shield as the Hollows formed up better than the others, these had spears. Wonderful, a new complication. Worse yet, rather than run at him in a blind fury they held back holding up their shields spears poised. Would the blessings of the Allfather never cease. He held up his shield as the two sides considered each other over walls of steel.

Marcus moved forward then approaching one of the ghoulish hollows who responded with a swift thrust of its spear forcing him to take a step back and then several more as he caught the other circling him. Forced back to the entrance the hollows formed up again, patient, dangerously so.

He changed tact then, shifting his grip and charging one of the hollows he let its spear bounce from his shield as it thrust in and then leaned back raising a greave and kicking the hollow squarely in the shield throwing the obstruction away as he came in with a long thrust piercing its weakened armor easily and sending it sprawling with a single mighty stab. Spinning on heel to the other he caught it gripping the spear in two hands and threw himself into a forward roll coming up just ahead of the thrust as it chambered another, this time though he had enough time to get his shield up.

The spear is not a weapon with a great deal of weight but Marcus' guard was broken badly and he stumbled, hopping through a backstep as he and the hollow faced off again. Marcus felt his stamina returning, he sighed in relief glad that the exhaustion faded as swiftly as it came, but he knew the same was true of his opponent. Now however he knew how to best them, Hollows were many things, learning creatures was not one of them. Marcus rushed the spearman, who thrust at him as he approached Marcus let the attack rattle off his shield as he chambered another kick, blowing wide its guard and slashing it across its shocked throat, murky blood flowing down its front as it gurgled dropping its weapons as it clutched at its throat, glaring at him with unconcealed hatred he brought up his boot and kicked it onto its back with a thrill of vindictiveness.

He started searching the isolated rooftop, finding, after a few moments, the barrels and boxes concealed a stairwell heading down. Happy to have avoided the deathtrap for now he descended carefully the stairs, Shield at the ready and sword gripped in preparation for another attack. He heard the shifting of things and a small voice.

A voice, here in this blighted hollow? He sped his steps out to a small terrace, and turned to find a burn-eyed hollow, sitting in merchant's clothes. The strangest part was that it was smiling at him. He seemed tense as they stood staring at eachother a few moments before Marcus slowly sheathed his weapon and raised his visor, Seeing his face the hollowed merchant relaxed.

"Oh, you seem ta have your wi's about you, welcome, welcome, you need something? I've collected much from the burg that might be of use to ye." He said lifting his hand from something just in front of his seated form to land on a small box and a selection of other objects that raised Marcus' eyebrow. However, curious he stepped forward.

"Perhaps, what happened here?" Marcus asked motioning with a gauntlet back the way he came, the hollowed man shrugged.

"Undeath, come on then, what're ye buying?" he asked eagerly as Marcus stepped up, immediately the small clay pots filled with fuel caught his eye and drew a snicker from the merchant.

"Oh I know that look, Firebombs are popular amongst the human regulars in the Anor's army, don'tchu know? These are of fine quality I assure you." He ignored that remark and scanned the goods, throwing knives, useful to those with the skill to use them well, but what really caught his attention were banded glass balls with runic writing on them encasing a supple, pale, milky white liquid. Talismen named after the Allfather himself, tools against undead like himself, isolating them from the fires of life. Lloyd's Talismans were a strange thing to find, but then it made sense and he knew he was right of the fate of the human population of the berg, these talisma were another hint of the war that must have raged in these streets.

"Hey, you planning to buy or just daydream?" The merchant said with a sharp edge under his joking tone.

"hm... Knives, I'll take some." Marcus said softly the Merchant's hand had wandered back behind his goods again from his new angle Marcus could see the lacquered sheath and handguard of an eastern style sword, a rarity and a mighty tool indeed. The Merchant gathered the knives and followed his eyes to the sword.

"Only thing not for sale, m'fraid, little Yulia is mine, keeps the hollows at bay you see…" he said with just enough warning to deflect Marcus' eyes away from the finely made sword.

"What is your price?" Marcus asked reaching for the small package of coin he kept, the Merchant smiled.

"souls are the only currency worth considering here, their warmth drives back the madness, it does." He says and Marcus halted, the long moment saw the merchant's smile start to harden.

"s' a fair price!" he said as Marcus nodded and considered the warmth within him. The merchant held out his hand.

"hand them over… you've never done this before 'ave ye?" the nasally little man said with a sigh. "gimme yer hand I'll walk ye through it." The man's hand seemed to tremble as Marcus reached out to take it in a handshake. There was a resonance, a rousing of the warmth within him, it flowed toward the other, peaceably moving from him to the man who seemed to grow, his mouth falling just a bit open, though it quickly shut again. At the end Marcus felt colder, like he had when he had grown at the bonfire. The souls fled him leaving him feeling drained somehow. But it was the cost of doing business here it seemed.

"here." The merchant said thrusting the small bundle of throwing knives at him. "Take 'um, you're all paid up. Unless you wanted something else?" He asked leadingly, Marcus started to shake his head then saw a key resting amongst the detritus.

"How much for the Key?" He asked trying to judge the weight of souls within him and finding that knowing the loss like he had, he could put a number to it easily enough, like second nature.

"A fine prize, that key is from the constabulary, opens many houses in the Berg." Marcus felt cagey about the creeping chill. Thinking back though, there was no shortage of Hollows to refill him. He paused at the thought, a long moment spent considering that thought before taking the man's hand again with a deepening frown. The merchant ignored it as their hands met the rough, withered leathery skin of the hollowed man reminded Marcus that it took more than mere souls to keep an undead whole, and he still felt whole enough on his stolen humanity, his little burnt remnant of darkness that filled him with flames.

Taking his key he left the man who seemed quite pleased with himself as Marcus drew his sword again, raising his shield as he moved through the tight house. The moment something to his side burst through a pair of cabinets with a startling quickness and swung at him with an axe was all the refresher he needed after his brief vacation from this ongoing hell that was this undead burg.

Luckily the berg did not lack for tests of skill. Dispatching each foe before him he found a worrying trend heading down this path, he met no more firebombers, no more warriors or soldiers with their better kept arms and skills. Only hollowed wretches wielding whatever they could lay hands upon greeted him in these alleys and streets, he was almost insulted when one of them was wielding a bedpan. He twisted and turned for what felt like hours, pushing through ambushes for little more than rubbish he decided that this was the wrong path almost the same instant he found himself back against the aqueduct, no closer to the bridge than he had been.

Lesson one of combat, if you find prepared foes you are going the right way, and that was definitely not this way. At least heading back to that square he found blissfully little in the way of resistance, the hollows having not moved back into the space he cleared out with steel not long before. Coming back up he retraced himself back to the dragon's square, as he thought of it. Climbing back up he faced the firebombers in wait and the shifting shadows of the house on the other side. It was time to make a decision.

He raised his shield up above his head as best he could and sprinted with all his might for the house trusting that no matter what he found it would not be worse than being cooked to death… again. Bursting into the shadows he found a small crowd and raised his weapon to push into them, trading blows with vigor knowing that to seek opening was to invite being overwhelmed. with no time for estus he fought fiercely until he heard the sound of a door kicked in and reinforcements for his enemy swarmed in. The battle then became one of chaos, in the horror he dropped his shield, or perhaps having it ripped from him, he did not recall. all he remembered was the pain and the vicious melee one against many. His armor was battered, covered in blood both his own and his enemies, but they were dead. holding his longsword in both hands he counted corpses and laughed to himself as he stumbled around the room looking for his shield.

He took deep draughts of his Estus after that, feeling the captured sunlight in its liquid depths burn the pain and impurity away, restoring him. He took deep breaths as he pressed forward, sword again in hand fighting along the rooftops one by one, killing archers, grenadiers, and more than his share of well armed soldiery. He approached the wall the parapets over the main bridge, a simple fall of forty feet once he got to the top. Approaching the watchtower there was another strong showing of enemies, but the Hollows grew more predictable, the shadows of their training tempered by unthinking rage at those less afflicted. Fighting to the base of the stairs he saw a barricade set at the top of the broken steps to the watchtower, Down was far less immediately reinforced, perhaps he could sneak…

He stopped in his tracks, staring down at the alley, he could not judge the height precisely, but he saw the outline, the shadow of a fearsome body. Standing at relaxed introspection with its back to him he knew the shape of their armor. A black knight, right hand warriors of Gwyn. Those who fought against Chaos in Izalith. Marcus was no fool, to challenge one of the chosen warriors of the gods was a fool's errand, He backed himself up the stairs and regarded the barricade, suddenly finding it far more surmountable to his eyes. He raised his shield and advanced slowly toward the hollow holding a shield and a burning torch. The hollow seemed to smile as it took a step forward and Marcus froze as it brought the torch down igniting the pitch soaked barrel and kicked it.

Panic rocked Marcus as he turned to run backward the burning barrel, for lack of a better word, barreled after him. Making it to the curve in the stairs heading up he leaped forward rattling every bone in his body and doubtlessly incurring a substantial bruise. He scrambled to his feet and readied himself as the hollow came down the steps behind him. This was a fight he was prepared for, and dealt with it viciously.

He was truly growing sick of fire being used against him. Fire was never meant for mortal hands, the lesson of Izalith. Leaving the shattered body of the hollow ambusher behind him he ascended into the watchtower. Looking immediately inside he walked in the door he saw stairs spiraling up, and a door across the way. Immediately he walked to the door, more stairs was unappealing as an option.

Marcus sighed and momentarily hung his head, the door was locked. He turned to regard the stairs again a moment and then trudged back to start ascending, rising up level by level to the sounds of scurrying feet, rats most likely. Coming up he went to ascend to the height of the parapet but found the stairs smashed and the top boarded over, leaving only the way out to the battlement open. He stepped up to the doorway shield raised, prepared for an army.

The complete absence of said army made Marcus unaccountably nervous, this was an excellent choke point, they'd never failed to reinforce one like this before. He stepped out and looked left and right carefully, spotting a reinforced ladder immediately to his side. He stayed quiet and sheathed his sword and slung his shield to start climbing slowly coming to the top he smiled to himself as he poked his head up, hollows with crossbows standing ready watching the expanse. He carefully drew his sword and scrambled the last few rungs up the ladder, holding his sword in two hands as they spun to face him, shock warring with the perpetual rage on their faces. The battle was brutal as it was swift, only a few of them were here and he was used enough to their aggressive tactics, without even shields they're hardly a roadblock to him anymore with stolen vigor empowering him.

Climbing back down Marcus began the long walk across the battlements, He took a deep breath admiring the bridge, it was a mighty structure. He noted, distractedly, it was scorched black in many places. thus he recalled the dragon and suddenly felt the need to look up instead of just around. Having gazed up and down the bridge he noticed something on the other tower, about two thirds of the way across he paused and as he got a better look at the lump, the lump looked back at him with a smoldering malevolence.

He paused to stare up as the massive lump moved, and vaulted over the edge of the parapet. It took him a few long moments to process what he was seeing. It Towered at easily fifteen feet tall hunched like it was. Cloven hooves and a boney skull with deep set eyes like motes of smoldering coal, great curling horns, and a great furred body with muscle like corded steel cable. It hefted an axe-like hammer not so much forged as torn whole from some enormous demon's skeleton and carved to its shape, judging by its appearance. It towered over him and roared. Marcus gripped his sword and shield, white knuckled. Such a monstrous demon he had only seen once before, the desperate battle with the asylum demon loomed large in his mind, now with Estus, with empowerment, with preparation. Marcus put his sword into both hands and prepared. Quickly however, this battle turned, a roaring sweep of its axe showed a staggering range, Marcus found himself pushed further and further back, finally when he was nearly pushed back to the old tower he rushed the demon diving twixt its legs and slashing at them in passing, feeling accomplished.

He felt a smile growing as his breath returned, he turned his head just in time to get mule kicked in the chest, sent tumbling. He recovered, rolling to his feet as he heard a growl. He turned and raised his shield the demon was already in the air, the weapon above its head and descending.

Marcus stared into the bonfire. It was warm, it felt good against his withered skin, even as distant and muted it still stirred his chest. Taking a long moment he refilled his Estus flask and stood, the Crestfallen warrior chuckled quietly, Marcus felt his jaw tighten beneath his helmet.

He walked back up the way. This time there would be fewer missteps, he would be prepared for the fire, for the arrows. Coming to the manned barricades, finding the revived undead had made their way back to the defenses, Hollows were just as inured to death as he was becoming and they fought with all their fury. This time however he was unsurprised by their numbers, and understood their standard tactics. Their firebombs were easily avoided if you knew they were coming. Their wild flailing easily defeated if you were prepared for it. Preparation and determination pushed him back into the burg, and its writhing mass of Hollowed citizens.

The fight back to the great bridge was powered by a fury he'd thought lost to him. A grand determination that saw all Hollows that met his path slain hotly. His blade was notched now, battle worn as his armor, repelling strikes made in fury where he trusted it to keep him fighting, his wounds were light, and his teeth maintained their grit. A cold determination and a path with words of prophecy ringing in his ear. Thou who art undead, art chosen. The Chosen can't be stopped by the lost and the damned. He fought back to the bridge's crossing. Knowing the streets better now it was swift to fight forward, there were no shortage of foes, but Marcus made short work of them. The expanse long and pockmarked with what he now knew to be the rage of a demon. Taurus demon of Izalith, spawn of Chaos, enemy of Gwyn. No wonder a Black Knight lurked in the burg below. He had heard tale and seen depictions enough to know about the twisted armor of the knights and their hopeless battle against Chaos that scorched them black.

Standing again astride the parapets he raised sword, this time he had searched the burg more thoroughly. Looking for Firebombs or some other tool to make the battle more even, and he had found what he sought. Two thirds of the way across the bridge again the demon Vaulted the far tower and roared defiance, as it did this, Marcus raised something cupped in his sheild hand and rubbed the impregnated pine resin upon his blade as it crackled and snapped with power. Golden Pine resin, he'd found it stocked away in the home of a dead man, quite the supply. He applied it liberally, the glowing crackle of his blade trailing in the air as he brought the blade into two hands. Confidence can do much for a man, his failure was a lesson, and this time he would be no easy prey.

The demon advanced with a quickness and Marcus stood his ground, the Demon eyed the crackling sword with ire and raised its hammer roaring as it leapt at Marcus aiming to crush him with a single blow. Marcus however was unbowed. Prepared for the size and appearance of the demon he instead rolled beneath its attack, inside the demon's guard and raised his blade leaving a scorched but twitchingly shallow wound on the demon's stomach, it was like trying to cut a log. He gave it a second swing and a third, one across the stomach then another along the thigh. The demon growled and stepped back holding the hammer like a spear and thrusting it at him Marcus dove through it's legs cutting its calf on the way past, rolling to his feet and throwing himself into a further roll as the mule kick he'd been anticipating passed where he had been.

He and the demon squared again, it the worse for wear this time, the glowing crackle of Marcus' blade gripped in two hands. They sprung toward each other, the Demon with mighty swings that heralded a hurricane with their passing, Marcus' blade for being so much smaller left smoldering edges well out of proportion with the wound they left. The lightning dancing along his blade easily doubling the harm he dealt. The monster slowed wound by wound. He could feel it, and his undead constitution held strong, he'd been winged not once but twice, even those blows rang through him, the pain throbbing and making him wish he would find a safe moment to take a quaff of his Estus flask, but no. There was no opening so great as that.

They dove at each other again the demon a low blow intended to swat marcus off the parapet and to a certain death on the bridge but Marcus again dove its legs, stopping in front of them this time and opting for a Long two handed sweep along the upper inner thigh demon. Ichor splashed and the monster buckled and roared as it stumbled. Marcus' triumphant feeling vanished as though drenched in ice water as the monster began to stagger and he bolted through its now glowing legs as the great beast fell to its knees with a whimper that would have been a roar to a lesser beast and Marcus didn't need to be told this as his moment, he took the blade in one hand and took a running leap jamming the resin-coated sword into the monster's back then pulling it free and stabbing again and again as the beast's inner fire burned out of control as it toppled forward disintegrating in a wash of heat that consumed it to dust.

Marcus stood, coated in the ashes of the fallen demon and walked to the other tower through the open door and headed down the stairs to the bridge's main level. Stopping to look out as he did, on the great expanse of the ceremonial balcony. Savoring his victory over a mighty foe and the blooming bounty of stolen warmth in his bosom he looked down to see a man dressed in the strangest color standing staring up at the sun. Marcus walked around and descended to go see this strange fellow, he held his shield up. This was Lordron after all, there's no telling what sort traveled here.

He approached the man the clank of his armor seeming to fail to draw the warrior from his reverie.

"Hello?" Marcus croaked in his hollowed whisper, the Man started slightly his head whipping around.

"Oh? Hello, I was just admiring the Sun. I did not hear you approach." He asked his voice a rich baritone, his tone bright, almost sunny. "Who might you be?"

"I am Marcus, Undead." He answered raising his visor to reveal his hollowed form. The warrior gazed on without flinching and raised a hand to clap him upon the shoulder, startling Marcus with his forwardness.

"Greetings, brother! I too am an undead, seeking my own sun in this land of fallen lords! What is your purpose here?" He asked with what seemed genuine curiosity, his friendliness was at once both endearing and almost unsettling with the dourness of the place that seemed unable to touch the man.

"I… I seek the bells of Awakening, and the fate of the undead." Marcus stammered though he couldn't help but relax slightly.

"A mighty quest indeed! Tell me brother, have you anyone to aid you in such a difficult endeavor?" The Knight asked.

"No, but, perhaps I might have your name sir knight?" Marcus asked, realizing the knight had never introduced himself.

The man, for his part looked shocked then let out a light laugh.

"Ho, ho! Forgive my enthusiasm, to meet another undead with his heart intact excited me greatly, I am Solaire, Solaire of Astora." He said and patted Marcus' shoulder again.

"Then perhaps while we intersect you may find my sign lain, If you find our humanity again. Summoning Signs will find you. The world here is in flux, time twists upon itself. We undead, broken as we are may cross to others to help... Here, Take this." He said reaching back into his pocket and drawing a well worn white stone.

"This is a white soapstone, with but a small act of will one may leave an impression upon a spot, a shade of yourself. Others whose world lies close enough to yours may engage in Jolly Cooperation! There are benefits to such assistance, naturally. The greatest being the feeling of assisting another in their time of need." Solaire pushed the stone into Marcus' hand and closed his fingers about it as Solaire patted him again. His confusing and mysterious monologue being not only oddly familiar for a stranger but almost crazy sounding, perhaps this knight was not as sane as Marcus had imagined.

"If you find yourself in need, look for my sign, I leave it often. Blazing gold. If you miss it, why you must be blind." He said with a chuckle. "Now, go on ahead, I wish to gaze at the sun a bit longer, mayhaps one day I might be so Grossly Incandescent…" he trailed off and Marcus stepped back from him as he turned again to look up quietly at the sun. Marcus put the soapstone into his pocket carefully and backed away from Solaire. A man of great charisma, and wondrous spirit indeed, but a strange man none the less… Turning back up to the Bridge he took a breath and stepped out onto the bridge where a veritable brigade of Hollows waited. Shield readied he advanced only to hear a great flapping of wings and a familiar roar of fury spinning he looked up just as the mouth of the dragon belted out a great gout of fire he raised his shield, but alas steel is no match for drake's fire.

* * *

The themes of loneliness and isolation are pretty core to Dark Souls but they don't make for a terribly compelling written experience. so dialogue will be expanded where it makes sense, I do have a script for the game with trigger notes so I can keep people to their more natural tone and manner. Solaire really is a bit of a weirdo, much as I like him. He's about as subtle as a brick through a window and as loud as well.


End file.
